9
"The muggle grows too bold," Mulciber growled, watching Alice's white dress disappear around a corner of the castle's main corridor. "Walking these halls as if she belongs here, nose buried in our ancient texts."
"Strutting about, flaunting her ignorance," Rowle sneered, pushing himself off the wall. "I'll give her ignorance." He stalked after Alice, catching up with her just as she reached a secluded alcove containing a towering bookshelf filled with ancient tomes.
"You there!" he barked, making Alice jump. She turned, her surprise quickly replaced by a carefully schooled neutrality. "Do you even understand the words you're reading, muggle?"
"Perhaps more than you think," Alice replied calmly, her gaze steady. She closed the heavy book she held, its spine embossed with silver runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. "The Dark Lord encourages my…education."
Rowle scoffed, but hesitated. The casual mention of their Lord's name, coupled with Alice's unnerving composure, gave him pause. He'd witnessed firsthand the Dark Lord's…unpredictable moods regarding the girl. "He tolerates your presence. Don't mistake that for acceptance."
"Tolerance," Alice echoed, a hint of amusement in her voice, "is often the first step towards understanding. Perhaps one day, even you will understand." She turned back to the bookshelf.
Rowle glared, his hand twitching towards his wand, but thought better of it. He muttered a curse under his breath and started to retreat, but a cold voice cut through the air.
"Is there a problem, Rowle?"
Rowle froze, his face paling slightly as Antonin Dolohov emerged from the shadows, his scarred face impassive. He towered over the younger Death Eater, his presence radiating a quiet menace that made Rowle instinctively take a step back.
The others fell silent, though their displeasure remained evident in their stiff postures and dark looks. Antonin found their reactions almost amusing. For all their pure-blood pride and dark magic, they were remarkably easy to unsettle – and by nothing more threatening than a muggle girl with a book.
The memory of a recent encounter with the girl surfaced in Antonin's mind. He had found her in one of the lesser-used corridors, carefully examining a cursed tapestry that depicted a particularly gruesome battle scene.
"That's not meant for gentle eyes, Lady Waters," he had said, expecting her to startle at his approach.
Instead, she had turned to him with that characteristic calm. "Is anything in this castle meant for gentle eyes, Lord Dolohov?" There had been a touch of wry humor in her voice that had caught him off guard.
"I suppose not," he had admitted, finding a flicker of something long-buried stir within him at her response, a ghost from a time before the world had hardened him so completely.
"Then perhaps," she had suggested with that same steady warmth, "I should learn to be less gentle."
The exchange had stayed with him, not for any particular significance, but for its peculiar charm. The girl had a way of acknowledging the darkness around her without being consumed by it – a trait that stirred a memory he tried to suppress, of another person from another time.
Now, watching his fellow Death Eaters bristle at her mere presence, Antonin found a cold sort of entertainment in how thoroughly she unsettled them. Not through any attempt at power or rebellion, but through this simple, steady acceptance of her place in their world. It was... almost elegant, in its way.
"She'll bring nothing but trouble," Rowle muttered, breaking into Antonin's thoughts. "A muggle in our sacred halls—"
"Our Lord seems to find her presence... useful," Antonin interrupted coldly, his scarred face impassive. The words were carefully chosen – not 'entertaining' or 'amusing,' which might suggest their Lord's judgment was clouded by mere diversion. No, 'useful' implied purpose, and purpose was something they all understood.
He had seen the slight changes in their Lord's demeanor – nothing so obvious as softening, but perhaps... a tempering. Like a blade being honed to a finer edge rather than simply sharpened for brute force. Their Lord's cruelty had always been precise, but lately it seemed more... considered.
It was an interesting development, one that Antonin watched with his usual detached curiosity. He had no particular investment in the girl's welfare, but he recognized the value of anything that made their Lord's power more focused, more controlled. Even if that something was nothing more than a muggle girl with an unexpectedly steady gaze.
Later that evening, Antonin found Voldemort in one of the smaller council chambers – their chamber, as it had been for decades. Dark wooden panels absorbed the firelight, and ancient wards hummed in the walls – wards they had crafted together in those early days, when their empire was nothing more than ambitious dreams and carefully laid plans.
The Dark Lord stood by the hearth, ruby eyes reflecting the flames. Without turning, he gestured to the worn leather chair that had been Antonin's preferred seat since before the first war. As Head of the newly established House Dolohov – a title earned through unwavering loyalty and ruthless efficiency – Antonin had earned his place in this intimate setting. Their ritual needed no words; he conjured two glasses as a house elf appeared with the same bottle of Ogden's Reserve they'd shared after their first victory.
"Your thoughts, old friend?" Voldemort's voice carried the slight softness reserved only for these private moments. Here, behind closed doors, they were not master and servant but two architects of an empire, bound by decades of shared victories and calculated brutality.
Antonin settled back, stretching his scarred legs toward the fire. "The sacred twenty-eight grow restless. They sense change coming, though they lack the vision to understand its shape." He took a measured sip of whisky. "We've culled the weak."
“The weak have been culled, yes, but strength can be cultivated where we find potential. The old families, houses like Black, have been… diminished. Their influence wanes. We must rebuild them, find those with the capacity for power and cultivate their loyalty. House Black, in particular, presents an opportunity.” Voldemort moved one of the crystal tumblers like a chess piece, a game they'd played countless times before. "Though some cuts went deeper than others. Tell me, Antonin, do you ever regret your... decisive handling of the Lestranges?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Antonin's face remained impassive, though something dark flickered in his eyes. "Bellatrix's entertainment with a prisoner proved... costly." His voice held centuries of ice. "The family tree needed pruning. And I pruned it. I left Rastaban. He leads the house well enough."
"Ah yes, Alice…Fortescue…or, Longbottom, by the end, wasn’t it?" Voldemort's smile held genuine warmth – or what passed for it in his serpentine features. "The only woman who ever touched that frozen heart of yours. Before Bellatrix's... unfortunate choice of entertainment." He paused, studying his oldest companion. "Which brings us to our current Alice. There's something about her that seems to... intrigue us both, wouldn't you say?"
Antonin's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass. The parallel hadn't escaped him – both Alices shared that same unflinching gaze, a warm strength that rivalled steel. "She shows... potential."
"More than potential," Voldemort mused. "She requires guidance, proper instruction in court life. I find myself... invested in her development." His ruby eyes gleamed. "Perhaps it's time to strengthen our court. Narcissa Black's return could serve multiple purposes – restore the reputation of House Black and provide our Alice with suitable mentorship."
"And young Theodore?" Antonin asked, their minds moving in familiar synchronicity.
"Let him remain with Andromeda Black, but under closer supervision. The Black blood runs strong in him – it would be... wasteful to sever that connection entirely." Voldemort refilled their glasses. "Besides, old friend, we've learned the cost of being... overzealous with family bonds, haven't we?"
Antonin inclined his head, acknowledging the subtle rebuke and reminder. He had earned his title, his place at Voldemort's side, through decades of loyalty and shared vision. But the memory of Alice Fortescue – her brilliant mind shattered by Bellatrix's cruel games – had driven him to an execution that, while justified, had perhaps been more personal than tactical.
"To new arrangements," Voldemort raised his glass, a rare gesture of equality between them. "And old friends."
Antonin met his lord's toast, the firelight casting shadows across his scarred face. Some ghosts, he had learned, never truly fade – they simply shape the darkness within.